Help Me Help You
by tryanforever91
Summary: Two things connect Stiles and Jackson: Scott's sudden transformation, and Lydia Martin. Stiles tries to help Scott while maintaining his sanity, and Jackson wants to know what the hell McCall is on. Throw Lydia in the mix, and things get even more precarious. But help can be found in the most unlikely places. In Stiles and Jackson's case, they find it in each other. Stiles/Jackson
1. Chapter One

We begin in the midst of episode one, on the night of the full moon, before Lydia's party…

**Help Me Help You**

_Written by tryanforever91_

-o-o-o-

**Chapter One**

The smooth tile floor was cold against Stiles' feet and sent a shiver through him as he stepped out of the shower. The few drops of water that his towel missed rolled off his face and fell to the floor with a soft _tip tip tip_ as he crossed the bathroom. He wasn't looking at the mirror, but he could see the outline of his naked physique out of the corner of his eye, even through the thick condensation. He was only a fraction of an inch shorter than Scott, and not considerably skinnier (at least, that's what he told himself). It really begged the question: how in hell did Scott make that shot during practice? As Stiles slung his towel onto the rack, his arm felt oddly stiff. It shuddered suddenly, and the towel slinked to the floor in a heap. Stiles cursed and beat his fist against the wall. He was still shaking.

To say Stiles was rattled was an embarrassing understatement. It had been a little over half an hour since Scott had left, and Stiles was still trying to compose himself after being shoved against a wall by his best friend. In that split second before Scott released him, Stiles didn't know what he was afraid of. But he was afraid.

He rolled his eyes as he pulled on his boxers. He just had to use the word "bloodlust." It was only to make a point, and Stiles was half kidding when he said it. But there wasn't anything funny about the look in Scott's eyes as they stared Stiles down, just inches away from him. Bloodlust. His urge to kill.

The stacks of browning old books and website printouts were still piled precariously around Stiles' room as he stalked in. He tried to ignore the snarling canine faces glaring at him from the pages scattered across his floor and desk as he swept them aside. He'd been at his computer literally all afternoon. As soon as practice had let out, he raced home to confirm his hunch. Actually, it wasn't so much a hunch as an ever-growing concern for his well-being. Now that he had taken a few minutes away from his frantic research, though, Stiles couldn't help but feel a little foolish. Had he really spent the last three hours studying _werewolves_? Obviously, he was panicking. He was especially prone to panicking. Scott's sudden transformation from benchwarmer to MVP could have been explained by other, less supernatural things like steroids, or the unbreakable determination to impress his new crush.

He didn't want to look at it anymore; the books, the Wikipedia articles, the slashes in his desk chair. He could feel a tightening in his chest, a reluctance in his lungs to draw in air, a numb prickle of dread and uneasiness at the edge of his mind. He couldn't worry about this anymore. He needed to think about something else.

Another chill spidered down Stiles' back, and he realized he was still standing in his underwear. He needed to get dressed; the party was tonight. That in itself was a separate set of problems altogether. It wasn't just a party, though; it was _Lydia's_ party. Those were the only parties really worth going to, and more to the point, by virtue of being her party, Lydia Martin herself would be there, which naturally guaranteed Stiles' attendance.

Lydia, the object of Stiles' unrequited affections since third grade. Lydia, whom Stiles was very certain didn't even know his name.

He heaved a great sigh. Whatever problems Scott was dealing with, whether with love, lacrosse, or lycanthropy, they could wait. Right now, Stiles just had to figure out what the hell he was going to wear to this party tonight.

-o-o-o-

"Jackson, do you intend on clinging to my side all night?"

"I don't know, do you plan on ignoring me all night?"

Lydia stopped and whirled around, fixing narrowed, steely eyes on her boyfriend. "I'm not ignoring you," she said pointedly, "I'm trying to be a good hostess."

Jackson rolled his eyes. "Yeah, it's your thing, I know," he said, "but it's a house party, Lydia, not the Four Seasons. Let people get their own drinks."

Lydia pursed her lips and spun around again, marching as swiftly as her heels and the tray of drinks she was carrying would allow. "Really, Jackson, you've been to enough of my parties to know that there are certain _expectations_. People don't fight tooth and nail to get invited to a _mediocre_ party."

"Whatever, Martha Stewart," Jackson grumbled under his breath. He _had_ been to enough of Lydia's parties. In fact, he'd been to every party, as being her boyfriend necessitated, and every party, Lydia insisted on the whole "good hostess" song and dance. It was embarrassing, really, to be constantly chasing after his girlfriend in front of so many of his classmates. He couldn't even hang out with the guys, because they had their own girlfriends to suck their faces off. Even _Danny_ was with someone at the party. Anyone worth talking to was otherwise occupied, and anyone else… well, they weren't worth talking to.

So Jackson followed Lydia. He followed her like a puppy follows its master, keeping his expression aloof and condescending as he regarded the people he passed. He didn't recognize any of their faces any more than he'd recognize them in the crowds that filed through the school's halls every day. They were nobodies.

A face leapt out at him from the more mundane ones surrounding it. It was only his face, as the rest of his body was obscured by a girl with long dark hair. _McCall_. Their eyes locked for a moment before Allison hid Scott from view. There was a glimmer of defiance in Scott's eyes, an unspoken answer to an unspoken question: _No. I'm not telling you my secret._

Jackson's mind drifted back to practice earlier that day. He could remember body-checking Scott with ease and sending him flying into the grass. You couldn't use Scott McCall as a paperweight he was so skinny. How, then, did he pop back up, steal the ball away at the next face off, dance around half the team, somersault over the defense line and score between the goalie's legs? It wasn't a fluke or beginner's luck; that was five coincidences in a row too many. Scott was taking something. Jackson just _knew_ it.

Apparently Scott fancied himself as a comedian as well as a star lacrosse player, because he was about as forthcoming with his answers as a toddler covering up for pissing his pants. You just _know_ what's going on, but all you get is a bunch of bullshit and excuses. He wasn't going to tell Jackson what he was on, or where he was getting it, but Jackson would figure it out. He had to if he wanted to avoid the same lack of dignity he was currently suffering from tailing his girlfriend.

Amidst the droning of several dozen partygoers and the pounding bass of the music, the doorbell sounded its two-note chime, cutting sharply through the noise. Lydia perked up. "Someone's at the dooor!" she sang. Reluctantly, Jackson followed.

People usually came in groups, or at least with a significant other, but there was only one person standing on Lydia's doorstep when she answered the door. He held up a hand and plastered a ridiculous grin on his face. "Hi, Lydia," he chirped.

Lydia paused. "Do I… know you?"

His smile faltered, and he let his arm fall lamely back down to his side. "Stiles?" he said hopefully. "I'm in your chem class, and your history class. I was in math with you last year."

"Sorry, not ringing any bells." Lydia was about ready to shut the door in Stiles' face by the sound of it.

"I'm on the lacrosse team," Stiles said quickly. "I'm friends with Scott."

"Ohh, you're on the team," Lydia said, relaxing. That was an automatic in.

As Lydia stepped aside to let Stiles in, a thought flitted through Jackson's mind. He stared at Stiles for a moment as he took a glass of punch from Lydia.

-o-o-o-

Stiles was in. Lydia was nowhere to be seen, and he'd been wandering the party for near on an hour without bumping into anyone he knew. But he was in, sweet Jesus, he was _in._ He peered into the glass he was holding. He wasn't quite sure what was in it—he could smell pineapple and some sort of berry—but he was able to pinpoint one ingredient. Liquor. Stiles always felt a little guilty when someone offered him a drink at parties. He was sixteen. And his father was the sheriff. It was an ongoing dichotomy of avoiding being _that guy_—the solitary sober loner that never had a good time at parties—and avoiding a lifetime of paternal disappointment and potential incarceration. It was times like these that Stiles employed the "Don't Ask, Don't Tell." policy: his father would subtly hint at the question, but not outright ask it, and Stiles would skirt around the answer, but never actually tell it.

So Stiles drank. He drank in the small hope that Lydia would grace him with her presence, and maybe even a spontaneous conversation. He had been hoping for about five glasses now. Presently, he stood in a circle of people—marginal acquaintances of his—trying to keep up with their conversation, nodding when appropriate and smiling knowingly.

"Stiles."

He tensed and let out a yelp. The voice came from over his left shoulder, so close he felt it as much as heard it. He whirled around, his fruit punch slopping onto his hand. "Jeez, ever heard of a personal bubble—" He jumped again when he saw who was standing behind him. "—Jackson?"

"Sorry, Twitch, didn't mean to scare you."

Twitch. _What a fantastic nickname_, Stiles thought ruefully. "Yeah, well, maybe try a frontal approach next time." He ignored the raised eyebrow and the little chuckle Jackson gave him.

Stiles looked hard at Jackson, wondering if he had any particular reason for talking to him other than scaring him shitless and giving him degrading nicknames, before he noticed that Jackson was staring down at his hand. Suddenly aware that it was still dripping wet, he wiped it off on his pants hastily. "So… Jackson," he said slowly. "What can I do for you."

Jackson shrugged his shoulders noncommittally. "Noticed you were alone. Thought I'd say hi."

Stiles was still absently wiping off his hand on his pant leg as he eyed Jackson suspiciously. "Yeah. Hi," he uttered.

"Where's your buddy, Scott?" Jackson asked.

"Scott?" Stiles flashed back to that afternoon, his back pushed into the wall, an arm pressing against his chest, a glint of amber in Scott's eyes. "With Allison," he gritted out. "He was just _itching_ to see her."

"Ah," Jackson said. He raised both eyebrows in a lame feint of knowing sympathy. "Ditched for the girl," he said shaking his head. "I feel your pain."

_I bet you do_, Stiles fumed.

"I've been widowed too, unfortunately," Jackson continued. He turned his head, heaving an exaggerated sigh and stared forlornly at someone. "Look at her. So eager to please."

Stiles' eyes darted in the direction Jackson was looking. Sure enough, Lydia was gliding through the crowds of people, presenting glasses of punch to anyone she passed. "I see," he said flatly. Widowed. Why did Jackson have to use the word "widowed"? Did everyone just assume that just because Stiles didn't have a girlfriend that he devoted his whole life to Scott?

A hand rested lightly on his shoulder. "Come here for a sec," Jackson said, noticeably quieter. "I need to ask you something."

"Huh?" Stiles hadn't attempted walking for at least twenty minutes. Now with Jackson gently shunting him away from his huddle of half-friends, he found it surprisingly tricky. "Okay." He didn't know what room they were in, or which one they were headed to, but Jackson seemed to know where he was going, so Stiles left it to him. Lydia's house was really big, Stiles realized with dumb fascination.

When they stopped, they were in the middle of a long hallway. A room full of people dancing and laughing was visible at the end to his left; at the other end was darkness and muffled moaning. Stiles squinted at Jackson. "What's… up?"

"I just had a question for you," Jackson said softly. He offered Stiles his glass. "Want a sip?"

Stiles focused on the glass, pondering the question.

"You want a sip, take it, Stilinski," Jackson said, a little louder. He moved the glass closer to Stiles, so he took it. It did taste really good, and he was disappointed that he had spilled his. "In fact, why don't you just finish that."

Stiles did. It was a really full glass, he noted happily. He smiled as the last remnants of the sweet juice trickled into his stomach. Warmth seemed to radiate from his gut, creeping through his veins to the rest of his body. Once he had finished, he handed Jackson his empty glass, smiling placidly at him.

"So, listen," Jackson said, his voice dropping once more, "you were at practice today, right?" Stiles nodded, his head lolling forward and back. "That was a nice shot Scott made. You and him been training together or something?"

"Are you kidding?" Stiles slurred. "We're such lazy fucks, me and Scott. We haven't trained at all."

"So Scott hasn't been practicing on his own."

Stiles shook his head.

"And he hasn't been working out or anything."

He shook it again. Jackson grinned at him; a funny-looking grin, like he was laughing at a joke Stiles wasn't getting.

"Has he been acting different lately? Strange?"

Stiles' eyes went wide. "Has he?" he blared. "Jackson, you have no _idea_. Scott's gone off the deep end! He's driving me crazy!" He looked sadly at Jackson. "It really sucks."

Jackson nodded his head, and there was that look again on his face, like he knew exactly what Stiles was going through. "I know, Stiles," he said kindly. "He just hasn't been himself lately, has he?"

Stiles shook his head. "Nope."

"I'll bet he's been really angry too."

"Yeah. Yeah he has."

Something moved on the edge of Stiles' peripheral vision. An arm. Jackson's arm. It rested on the wall beside Stiles' head, and Jackson leaned in a little closer to him. "You know why, don't you?" He bowed his head slightly, looking up at Stiles, staring him unblinkingly.

"Why?" Stiles breathed.

"Scott," Jackson said. "You know what he's doing. You know where he's getting his power." He leaned a little closer, his eyes growing wider.

"Yeah," Stiles mumbled. "Yeah, I know."

"Tell me," Jackson whispered.

"Jackson, I can't. I shouldn't," Stiles groaned.

"Please?" Jackson said, still whispering. "I promise I won't tell."

He was so close now Stiles could feel Jackson's breath against his face, and smell the rich cologne coming off him. Stiles grinned. "Jackson," he said.

"Yes?" Jackson replied.

"You… smell nice." Stiles laughed again. "No homo," he added stiffly.

Jackson let out a long, frustrated grunt and pushed away from the wall. One hand went to his face, rubbing his forehead before pushing back into his hair. "Okay, listen, Stilinski—"

"Scott? Scott, are you okay?"

Whatever Jackson was growling at Stiles was lost on him suddenly. He turned his head sharply to his left, where the party was still in full swing. The crowds parted awkwardly for someone staggering past them. Stiles' stomach churned. _Scott_.

"Hey, this was great," he said abruptly. "Nice talkin' to ya, let's do this again soon." Stiles slid away from Jackson and stumbled down the hall.

Everything was hitting Stiles at once. Scott, the full moon, Allison and her evil powers of arousal. He burst into the living room and cast his gaze around. Scott wasn't hard to spot as he blazed a trail drunkenly through swaths of people.

"Yo, Scott!" Stiles called out. "Scott, you doing okay?"

Scott replied with a pained moan.

The shroud of inebriation started to lift as Stiles' brain started ticking again. He needed to think. He needed to get Scott out of here. He blundered after him.

Scott was surprisingly quick on his feet, given all the bumping around he was doing. He made it through the front door well ahead of Stiles and staggered down the driveway toward his car.

Someone pushed past Stiles and jogged after Scott. Long dark hair, dorky blazer. It was Allison. She called after Scott too, to no avail.

Before Stiles could even make it down the front steps, Scott was already tearing away in his mom's sedan. He slumped against a wall in defeat, sucking in the cold evening air and watching Allison stare hopelessly into the night. Another figure emerged from the darkness and sauntered toward Allison. He called out her name, and Stiles instantly recognized the impossibly smooth voice of Derek Hale.

Allison turned around to face Derek.

"I'm a friend of Scott's," he said calmly. "My name's Derek."

Stiles cautiously stepped toward the pair.

"Scott said he wasn't feeling well," Derek continued. "He offered his apologies and asked me to take you home."

"Like hell he did," Stiles said. Now that his blood was pumping through him in force and he was out in the cold, he found his grasp of things much clearer.

"Stiles," Derek said coldly. "I really should take Allison home." He moved closer to Stiles and whispered fiercely into his ear, "Go to him. He needs you."

Stiles gaped at Derek as he stepped toward Allison and took her gently by the arm. "Stiles," Derek said warningly, and he knew Derek was right. He nodded and made a mad dash for his jeep.

"Try not to die on the way there," Derek called after him. "There's only so many of you I can save in one night."

"Yeah, whatever," Stiles said under his breath as he threw open the door to his car and jammed his keys into the ignition. His jeep rumbled to life and he took off in the direction of Scott's house. His mind was racing as fast as the nightscape flying past his window as he sped down the street. He could scarcely believe what was happening. Scott was turning into a _werewolf_. Stiles was so sure of it—it was happening just as he feared—and yet, he was also sure that he was completely out of his mind. He just needed to get to Scott, to calm Scott down before he did something bad.

Stiles drummed his fingers anxiously on the steering while as he veered down Scott's street. As he did, he was briefly aware that his hand was still gross from spilling fruit punch all over it. His pants, too, were sticky, he noted grimly.

"Not exactly what I had in mind," Stiles sighed resignedly.

* * *

Thanks for checking out my story, I hope you're liking it so far. This is my very first Teen Wolf fanfiction (yay). On a whim, I decided to give the show a shot, and needless to say, I was hooked from the opening scene. Like I'm sure so many of you are, I'm totally in love with Stiles, and I decided right away that I needed to write a fanfiction about him.

I decided on Jackson because for a number of reasons; partly because Stiles/Jackson isn't as overdone as Sterek (which I also enjoy and support). I wanted to do something a little different, so here it is. I'm trying to stay as faithful to the show's canon as possible, but obviously I'm going to have to take some liberties here and there, and it might veer into AU-land closer to the end.

**Warning:** By now you should have guessed that this story depicts homosexual relationships. Continue reading at your own risk. This story also contains major spoilers for all of season one and possibly season two.

So anyways, thanks again for reading my story! As this is my first Teen Wolf fic, please leave me a review and tell me your thoughts. I'll need all the criticism I can get. Tell me what you liked, disliked (and why), suggestions, comments, you know the drill. Anything is appreciated!


	2. Chapter Two

Hey everyone. Back with chapter two, hope I didn't keep you waiting too long. Thanks so much for your reviews, it's so encouraging to hear your praise and feedback! And thanks as well to everyone who's subscribed; I hope you're enjoying the story so far.

Something I forgot to mention last chapter: I do not, in any capacity, condone underage drinking, and _definitely not_ drinking and driving. I tried to avoid writing Stiles driving home, but every alternative I came up with required me to change too much of what I'd already written. Don't follow his example; fictional characters do stupid, life-endangering things sometimes to make authors' jobs easier. So **don't drink and drive** kids, and **don't drink if you're underage!**

Okay, I'm done being your mom now. Enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

_ Stranded. Beacon Hills Reserve. I'll pay for your gas._

It was the first of half a dozen text messages that Stiles tried to ignore as he tossed groggily in his bed. Every ping from his cell phone pierced his throbbing eardrums, and the harsh morning sun burned through his eyelids. _It's too early_, Stiles groaned in his head.

Stiles finally gave up when Scott started calling. Swatting at his phone, he clicked 'ignore call' and finally peeled his eyes open. His brain felt like it had swollen up, pressing up against his skull and pounding painfully. He rolled onto his stomach and tried to push his torso up, swaying shakily as his head spun from the effort. _Maybe there's a reason drinking is illegal at this age_, Stiles thought as he pulled himself out of bed.

It felt uncannily like Stiles' brain had switched functions with his heart in his sleep and it had taken over the role of pumping blood to his body, because with every heartbeat it throbbed painfully. He cradled his head in one hand as he shuffled across his room. There was no use in getting dressed, Stiles decided. It was Saturday, and he planned on doing nothing that day but lying in the bathtub under a cold shower. With that, he grabbed his keys off his dresser and strode out of his room in the clothes he had slept in.

Stiles climbed down the stairs as quietly as he could—which, given his current state, wasn't quiet in the slightest—lest he alert his father and be caught stumbling around in a hungover stupor.

"You're up early."

The voice of Mr. Stilinski wafted through the doorway at the bottom of the staircase that led into the kitchen. Stiles poked his head through the doorway.

"I'm picking up Scott," he replied in a surprisingly raspy voice.

His father's eyes widened slightly as they looked up and took Stiles in. "My god," he said in a hoarse whisper. "How late were you out last night?"

Stiles looked down at his clothes and realized he was still wearing his pants and jacket from last night. "Oh," he said. "Really late." He tried to keep his tone light and nonchalant. "Lydia really knows how to throw a party."

"That I can believe," Mr. Stilinski said. "Someone phoned in a noise complaint last night."

Stiles' insides squirmed. "Really?" he said, trying his best to sound surprised.

"I told them we'd look into it," Mr. Stilinski continued, "but I knew what party they were talking about, so I lied." He regarded Stiles ponderously for a brief moment. "I _didn't_ need to look into it, right?" he said.

Stiles nodded quickly. "Oh, y-yeah, of course not."

"You were behaving yourselves, right? Not doing anything… irresponsible?"

"Irresponsible?" Stiles repeated. "No, nothing like that," he said, forcing a smile onto his face.

Mr. Stilinski gave his son a look, one that Stiles knew well; a curious frown that said he didn't fully believe Stiles, but he trusted him and he wasn't going to press him for answers. "All right," he said, reverting his attention to his newspaper and taking a sip of his usual morning cup of coffee. Stiles took that as his cue to leave.

"Okay, Dad, I'll see you later then," Stiles said, backing out of the kitchen.

"Hold on."

"Hm?"

"Where exactly are you picking Scott up from?" Mr. Stilinski asked.

"Uhh," Stiles blanched. He wasn't expecting that question. "He stayed at a friend's house."

"A friend?"

"Yeah," Stiles said. "His friend… Derek."

Mr. Stilinski raised an eyebrow. "Derek? Do I know him?"

"No, you've never met him, in fact, I've never met him either, no one knows who he is, he just showed up at the party, I don't think he was even invited, anyways, I'm going now, so I'll talk to you later. Bye!"

And before his dad could even try to get another word in, Stiles was out the door. His dad was always full of questions, he noted anxiously as he hopped into his jeep and backed out of the driveway. Stiles hoped he wouldn't regret using Derek's name. It was the first thing he thought of, probably because he was the last person Stiles saw besides Scott.

By the time Stiles was on the lone dirt road that led to Beacon Hills Reserve, Scott was already making his way home, having apparently given up on Stiles. He slowed down when he saw Scott walking despondently along the side of the road, sans shirt. "Oh for goodness sake," Stiles muttered as he slipped his jacket off.

Scott opened the passenger side door and slid into his seat wordlessly as Stiles handed him his jacket. They sat in silence for a good few minutes as they trundled down the road back toward town until Scott finally said something, and they hashed out their feelings, and Stiles told Scott he still loved him even though he was a bloodthirsty werewolf, and in as little as five minutes, they were okay again. Stiles relaxed when all was said and done. They were going to pull through, somehow.

"So, what happened to you last night?" Scott asked after another lapse in the conversation. "I barely saw you at the party."

"Maybe because you were wrapped around Allison all night," Stiles quipped.

"Not the whole time," Scott said. Stiles shot him a dubious look. "Okay, maybe I was. But, I swear, I didn't see you once the whole party. What were you doing?"

"I was hanging out with what's-her-face and that other guy from history class.

"You were intruding on strangers' conversations, weren't you?"

"Passively participating," Stiles corrected. "But yes, due to the absence of my ever-faithful wingman, I had to find company in more… distant acquaintances."

"All night?" Scott said, eyebrows raised.

"All night."

"You didn't talk to anyone you actually know?"

Stiles shook his head and sighed. "I may have said a few words to the back of Lydia's head. Other than that, I don't remember much. I was pretty far gone by the time you left. I can't even remember where I was when I saw your drunk ass stumbling out of Lydia's house."

"I wasn't drunk," Scott said defensively, "I was turning into a frickin' werewolf!"

"Yeah, well, you looked drunk."

"You look drunk," Scott retorted.

Stiles rolled his eyes as he steered his jeep back onto the main road. Scott always had a wonderful way with words. He noticed he was looking at him skeptically. "What?" Stiles asked.

"Are you ever going to, y'know, _talk_ to Lydia?"

"Dude, you don't think I've tried?" Stiles said incredulously.

"Well if you've tried, what's the problem?"

"You know Lydia," Stiles said. "She likes playing hard to get."

"Are you sure that's it?" Scott asked.

"Yeah. What else could it be?" Scott opened his mouth to respond, but Stiles interjected. "You know what, don't answer that question," Stiles said quickly. "Just let me continue living my fantasy."

It was Scott's turn to roll his eyes. "Okay. Whatever you say, Stiles."

"Look, can we forget about it?" Stiles said shortly. "We have bigger things to worry about."

Scott frowned. "What makes you say that?"

Stiles let out a sigh. "Just a hunch," he said.

It wasn't long before they had made it to Scott's house. Stiles pulled his jeep into the driveway and parked.

"Thanks for the ride," Scott said as he unbuckled his seatbelt. "I owe you one."

"Buddy, you owe me _way more_ than one," Stiles said, "but you're welcome. And keep the coat," he added as Scott climbed out of the car. "I'm pretty sure your mom would freak if you walked into the house shirtless after running off in the middle of the night."

Scott chuckled. "Yeah, thanks." He shut the door and waved at Stiles through the window as Stiles backed out and headed back home. At least thing couldn't get any worse, Stiles reassured himself. Scott had transformed a supernatural menace, made the lacrosse team, replaced Stiles with a girl he'd known less than a week and nearly tried to kill him.

_The only thing worse would be if someone even more powerful was out there, trying to kill Scott_, Stiles mused.

-o-o-o-

Jackson sat on the bench, bending low to tighten the laces on his cleats. The usual clamour of the locker room echoed throughout the room around him, the clatter of lacrosse sticks, the loud slams of locker doors, the ripping of velcro. It was the sound of routine, and Jackson felt an odd comfort in it. A new season started today, and Jackson was determined to see it through until the finals like he had last year. He had been crowned team captain and MVP, and he expected no less of himself this season.

He jumped when a loud shout punctuated the subdued hum of the locker room. Leaning forward slightly, Jackson peered around a row of lockers at where the sound had come from. Scott was leaning against the wall, eyes wide and chest heaving up and down. Jackson squinted and looked closer. Someone was standing in front of him, muttering something quickly and patting Scott on the arm. It was hard to make out what either of them were saying, but Scott looked extremely worried.

"Maybe he knows, maybe he doesn't. Just… just calm down. You can't be worrying about it right now. Just focus on lacrosse, okay?"

Scott's gear and jersey were thrust into his hands, and whoever was talking to him whirled around and scampered away, stumbling over a bench as he went. Jackson recognized Stiles by the look of shock on his face and the funny little shriek he made as he fought to maintain his balance. He jogged out of the locker room, answering the call of Coach Finstock's whistle, Jackson's eyes trailing after him.

_That didn't seem suspicious at all_, Jackson thought sarcastically as he stood up and followed Stiles.

Most of the team was already milling around the field when Jackson emerged from the locker room. It took him a second, but he found Stiles making his way toward the rest of the team. He was in full padding and carrying his stick, Jackson noticed with amusement. He couldn't imagine why; Stiles hadn't made the team. Again.

He jogged up to Stiles and called after him. "Hey, Stilinski!"

Stiles stopped and turned around, his brown eyes peeking through his helmet's facemask. "Yeah?"

Jackson caught up to Stiles and continued walking by his side. "I couldn't help but notice McCall making a scene back there," he said, nodding toward the locker room. "Care to explain?" He couldn't tell for sure, but Jackson thought he saw Stiles swallow before he answered.

"Oh, he's just nervous," Stiles said, waving a gloved hand. "First practice, y'know?"

Jackson nodded. "Sure, sure. I get it. I guess the pressure's on now that he's made first line."

"Yeah," Stiles agreed, "he's pretty anxious about it."

"Any idea how he did it?"

"Huh?" Stiles looked at Jackson questioningly. "What do you mean?"

"Come on, Stilinski," Jackson said. "Scott sucks, we both know that."

Stiles shrugged. "I guess. I don't know, maybe he just got lucky last week."

"Or maybe," Jackson said, lowering his voice, "he's got an unfair advantage."

"What, like a pretty girl in the stands cheering him on?" Stiles said, catching Jackson off guard.

He frowned at Stilinski, who motioned toward the bleachers. Sure enough, there was Allison Argent, his girlfriend's new best friend, walking up to the bleachers along the sideline. He scoffed and gave Stiles a withering look. "Oh. That."

"'Oh that'?" Stiles repeated. "Gee, I hope that isn't how you refer to Lydia too."

Jackson tried to reply, but silence fell between him and Stiles and got the better of him. He grinded his teeth in frustration. He wondered if Scott and Stiles delighted in making him fish for answers like this. But what was he supposed to say? 'So, tell me Stiles, is your friend on roids?' Obviously not. He had to go about it more tactfully, as taxing as it was on his patience. Stiles was Jackson's best chance at getting to Scott—and whatever it was that Scott was taking—and he couldn't blow it, because if Jackson wanted to maintain the prestige of being the team's captain and star player, he'd either need to reveal Scott, or follow his lead.

A shrill whistle blast cut through the air, and Stiles left Jackson's side as the team formed up for the first drill. As Jackson started to follow, Coach Finstock barked something at him.

"Jackson! Take a long stick today."

Jackson's eyes lit up. Long stick meant defense, and defense meant plowing people into the grass because practically everyone on the team was too slow to get past him. He picked up the lacrosse stick and nodded at the coach. Maybe today didn't have to be a bad day.

He took his place several yards up from the goal. He twisted around to look at Danny. "Looks like you'll be taking it easy today," he called out.

Danny smirked. "At least let one through for me," he replied.

"No promises," Jackson said as he turned around and faced the line of his teammates waiting to get knocked off their feet.

Coach Finstock blew his whistle again, and the fun and games started.

One by one, his teammates rushed at him, holding tight to their lacrosse sticks as they tried to evade Jackson. Some tried to get by with a fake to the side, others tried more complicated maneuvers, and some of the braver (or stupider) ones tried to run right through Jackson. It didn't matter, Jackson got them every time, stopping them in their tracks and shoving them hard into the ground. It was hardly a workout for him, and when he thought about it, the rest of the team probably wasn't building their skills either, but it was fun, and strangely cathartic. There was nothing like bowling through an entire lacrosse team to vent some frustration, Jackson thought with satisfaction, and at least he could do it without the help Scott was getting.

It was just after sending Greenberg flailing into the dirt that Jackson looked up and found Scott at the head of the line. He felt a smile spread across his face. _Let's see how that "beginner's luck" is holding up_, Jackson thought as Scott started his approach. He ran at Jackson cautiously and letting his stick swing around awkwardly. Jackson bent low to the ground, preparing his attack. As he waited for Scott, his mind wandered briefly to their last practice. He was still mystified that Scott managed his seemingly impossible shot, and now that Scott was running toward him, Jackson felt the smallest pang of trepidation. Jackson steeled himself as Scott drew close and forced all his weight into him.

Scott let out a satisfying wheeze as Jackson knocked the wind out of him and fell to the ground. Jackson stood over him and let out a small chuckle.

"You sure you still wanna be first line, McCall?"

Coach Finstock made his way over, laughing as he called Scott's name. "My grandmother can move faster than that. And she's dead."

As he snickered at Coach ridiculing Scott, Jackson relaxed. Maybe McCall wasn't on something, because he was just as easy to knock to the ground as ever. Maybe Jackson was worrying too much.

Scott got back up. He was going to have another go. He jogged back to the starting position as Coach Finstock called jeeringly from the sidelines. He looked at Jackson from across the field, his face scrunched in anger.

_Aww, looks like someone's upset_, Jackson thought as he prepared for another takedown. The whistle sounded and Scott took off. He ran faster this time, cradling his lacrosse stick in time with his rapid pace. Jackson rolled his eyes. Running faster just meant eating the grass sooner.

Just as Jackson was about to send Scott flying again, Scott disappeared. Jackson's eyes darted down just in time to see Scott springing up, practically leaping from the ground and forcing his shoulder hard into Jackson's chest.

Jackson gasped as his feet lifted off the grass, and there was a stunned split second where Jackson couldn't tell where he was or what was happening before he hit the ground, the full weight of his body coming down on his right shoulder. An anguished cry ripped through his throat as a white-hot flare of pain lanced through his body. He took a hand and gingerly cradled his shoulder, but he didn't need to touch it to feel that something was very wrong. He gritted his teeth and rocked back and forth on the ground, his shoulder pulsating painfully.

Around him was a confused muddle of concerned voices and shoes stepping cautiously around him. Shadows drifted around Jackson's blurred vision as his teammates circled around him. Somewhere in the commotion, he could hear Scott growling something at Stiles.

-o-o-o-

Stiles took in one, long, deep breath as the door to the locker room shut behind him. If he was scared on Friday, it was nothing compared to how he felt now. He had seen Scott's eyes, yellow and luminescent, like those of a dog on the side of the road at night, glowing eerily in the darkness. He saw his teeth, long and razor sharp. And he saw the claws, all ten of them, as they scratched and scrabbled along the floor and walls, as they came within inches of Stiles' throat.

Stiles had seen it with his own eyes now; it was official. Scott was a werewolf. And he was going to kill Stiles if he wasn't careful.

_Things keep getting better_, Stiles thought morosely as he started down the hall. He tried to slow his breathing as he felt it catch in his throat; he couldn't freak out now, he was still at school. What Stiles needed to do was go home, then he could freak out to his heart's content. He remembered that he had parked in the front lot that day. It was the furthest from his homeroom, so he tended to avoid it, but he had been late getting to school that morning, and his normal spot had been taken.

At least the school's halls were empty and quiet, which helped Stiles calm down somewhat as he walked. A moan of pain broke the silence and jarred Stiles out of his thoughts. He turned to his right and spotted a door marked "Nurse's Office."

"Sorry, did that hurt?"

The door was shut, but Stiles was still able to hear inside. He stepped closer, straining to listen in.

"Yes!" someone barked. There was only one person who could inject so much venom into one word. There was another groan. "So, what's wrong? Is it sprained? Dislocated?"

"It's not dislocated, the nurse said, "and be grateful it isn't. Looks more like a separated shoulder, but you'll need an x-ray to know for sure. It's not the end of the world," she added reassuringly, and Stiles could just picture the look of horror on Jackson's face, "but you should definitely go down to the hospital and get it looked at; I can't do anything for you here."

Jackson grunted. "Well, can you at least give me something for the pain?" he asked.

"I can give you an Advil, but you should go to the hospital right away."

Stiles flattened himself against the wall as he heard Jackson's chair scrape against the floor as he stood up.

"And do yourself a favour, don't drive yourself down there."

The door to the nurse's office swung open, and out stalked Jackson with a brooding scowl darkening his face. He walked right past Stiles without so much as a sidelong glance.

"Jackson!" Stiles called out. "Hey, Jackson, wait up!"

"Stilinski," Jackson greeted coldly, not turning to look at Stiles as he came up beside him.

"Is everything okay?" Stiles asked, pretending he hadn't just been eavesdropping.

"I've got a separated shoulder, what do you think, asshole?"

Stiles blinked. "Oh," he said. "That's really unfortunate."

"Yeah, it is," Jackson muttered as he pulled out his cell phone.

Stiles watched him tentatively as he tapped away at his iPhone. "Um, well... did you want a ride to the hospital? I know how to get there, Scott's mom works there."

"That's sweet, Stilinski," Jackson said dryly, "but I've got it covered." He lowered his phone and stopped to look at Stiles. "And by the way, next time you see Scott, tell him I owe him for this," and he motioned toward his injured shoulder with his good arm, his eyes wide and threatening.

Stiles stared back at Jackson nervously. "I'll pass on the message," he said.

Jackson nodded at Stiles and started walking again, holding his phone to his ear. "It's me, I'm at school. You need to come pick me up. Okay, well can Mom do it? I can't do it myself, I have to go to the hospital. Calm down, I'm not dying. It's not a big deal, okay? Some idiot bull rushed me during practice and now I've got a separated shoulder. Yes, I feel fine. Okay, I'll be outside the office." Jackson was at the end of he hallway by the time he hung up. Still staring down at his phone, he leaned into the door to open it with—as he realized too late—his bad shoulder.

Stiles winced as Jackson shouted an elongated "_Fuuuck!_" At he same time, Stiles couldn't help but laugh a little.

Jackson whipped around. "Shut up, Stilinski," he said. He glowered at Stiles, his eyes filled with the spite, but it had lost its effect somewhat. Stiles fought to keep a straight face, as Jackson turned and shuffled hurriedly through the door, the faintest hint of pink tingeing his cheeks.

* * *

Thus ends chapter two.

This chapter was surprisingly challenging to write. After writing the first chapter, I was unsure of where I wanted to take the story, and I got ahead of myself trying to map out the entire plot. I decided I needed to keep the pace slow and focused. Rest assured, big things are to come, but for now, I want to spend time with the small details and moments. Special thanks goes to my good friend dinogoose (don't ask) for keeping me sane during the writing process.

So, that's that. Thanks again for reading, I hope you liked this latest installment. Please, leave me a comment and tell me your thoughts on how the story is progressing. Every review bumps up my chances of pumping out the next chapter sooner, so have at it! :D


	3. Chapter Three

I have returned! A thousand apologies for the long delay.

I know I said this last chapter, but chapter three was _hard_ to write. Like, monumentally difficult! I had so many ideas I needed to connect, so much ground to cover, and so little inspiration. It's _done_ though, and thank god, because it's nearly five in the morning and I've been at it for over three hours straight now trying to finish this chapter in a sudden burst of inspiration. I'm going a little insane.

I'm going to make little sense if I go on, so I'll just let you get to it. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter Three**

"So, what'd you find out?"

Stiles had spent most of the afternoon trying to immerse himself in things normal teenagers did, like researching a paper for English instead of the history of werewolves. It was nightfall when he received a text from Scott explaining that his mother was now attending the game Stiles had forbidden him to play. Stiles decided he'd better talk to Scott and consider their options, as well as update him on Jackson's condition, so he reclined in his desk chair and convened with Scott over Skype.

"Well, it's bad. Jackson's got a separated shoulder."

Scott's shoulders slumped. "Because of me?"

"Because he's a tool," Stiles replied. Never mind that he was picking on Scott now that he was actually competent at lacrosse, but from the last few random encounters Stiles had had with Jackson, he had come to notice just how very cold he was. Cold and full of questions, now that Stiles thought about it, but he wasn't about to tell Scott about his conversation with Jackson before practice. He had enough to worry about with sending Jackson to the hospital and trying to avoid something worse happening at the upcoming game.

"But is he gonna play?" Scott asked.

"Well, they don't know yet. Now they're just counting on you for Saturday."

Scott sighed and hung his head dejectedly.

Stiles felt for him. He had never known the glory that came with being first line—or any line, for that matter—but he knew it was a big deal for Scott. He didn't know exactly why, but it probably had something to do with Allison by way of some contrived, macho, show-of-aggression courting thing; Stiles didn't know, he didn't have much experience with that either. He offered his friend a sympathetic look, but Scott was still wallowing in his angst. As he did, something caught Stiles' eye. With Scott's face filling the chat window he wouldn't have noticed, but now that Scott's head was bowed, Stiles thought he could see a dark shadow in the background shaped vaguely like a person. He frowned and leaned in closer. Not wanting to alarm Scott, and whoever might have been lurking behind him, Stiles opted to type his next response.

_It looks like someone's behind you._

He looked up from the keyboard, only to see Scott's image frozen on the screen and his cursor changed to the infamous rainbow pinwheel that signified that the program wasn't responding.

"Auggh, rainbow wheel of death," Stiles grumbled.

When the application finally unfroze, the shadow behind Scott proved itself to actually be a person. A person that was now grabbing Scott by the shoulders and wrenching him out of his chair. Stiles started, leaning forward in his computer chair as he watched, in shock, as the intruder rammed Scott into a wall.

"I saw you on the field."

_Of course_, Stiles thought. Who else but Derek would randomly appear in people's bedrooms in the middle of the night and attack them?

"What are you talking about?" Scott stammered.

"You _shifted_ in front of them!" Derek shouted. "If they find out what you are, they find out about me—about all of us. And it's not just the hunters after us, it's everyone."

"They didn't see anything, I swear."

"And they won't! Because if you even _try_ to play in that game on Saturday, I'm going to kill you myself."

Just as swiftly as he appeared, Derek's shadowy figure slipped away into the darkness of the night once more, leaving Scott leaning against the wall. It took Scott a moment to calm his breathing before he made his way back to his desk on stilted legs.

"That was Derek," he said blankly, sinking back into his chair.

"I know."

"He told me not to play Saturday's game."

"I know."

"He said he's gonna kill me if I do."

"Y'know, I hate to say I told you so... but I frickin' told you so," Stiles said, pushing away from his desk and waving his arms emphatically.

Scott grumbled. "So, what do I do now?"

"Easy. You talk to Coach tomorrow, tell him you can't play."

"Yeah, but—"

"Scott, seriously," Stiles said firmly, "Jackson's in the _hospital_, and you hadn't even fully… changed, transformed…"

"_Shifted_."

"Yeah, that, whatever. Think of what could have happened if you'd gone all the way. They don't have fire extinguishers on the lacrosse field, you know. If you shift during the game, I'm not going to be able to stop you. No one is."

Scott looked pathetically at Stiles, his shoulders crumpled and his mouth drawn in a defeated frown.

"Don't even _start_ with the puppy-dog eyes," Stiles said exasperatedly, holding his hand to his webcam and looking away. "That's so not going to work.

"Okaayy," Scott groaned. "Man, this sucks," he said, cupping his face in his hands mournfully.

"You'll survive," Stiles said dryly. _And so will everyone else on the field_, he added in his head.

-o-o-o-

"What do you mean he said _no_?"

Stiles and Scott were pushing their way down the hall after another riveting history class.

"I mean he said no," Scott replied.

"Dude, you weren't supposed to _ask_ for his permission," Stiles said incredulously. "You were supposed to tell him very firmly that you can't play Saturday's game. Y'know, because you're gonna tear everyone's heads off."

Scott cast an annoyed glare at Stiles. "Yeah, because I can totally say that," he said.

"You couldn't think of anything else?" Stiles asked. "How are we supposed to get you out of Saturday's game now?"

"I _have _to play the game," Scott groaned. "My mom's going, Allison's going. Lydia is threatening to sabotage my chances with Allison if I don't play."

"Lydia spoke to you? Man, must be nice," Stiles sighed.

"No, it wasn't nice," Scott said, continuing down the hall, "and you're missing he point, Stiles. Don't you see? I have to play the game!"

Stiles let out an annoyed breath. He was about to utter another tired retort when he heard something that made him stop in his tracks. "Dad?" he mumbled to himself. He followed the sound of his father's voice to a hallway that intersected with the one him and Scott were walking down. Mr. Stilinski was standing in full uniform talking in a hushed tone with the principal. Stiles' heart leapt into his throat.

"What?" Scott asked.

Stiles didn't even bother answering. He took Scott by the shoulders and pushed him closer to Mr. Stilinski and the principal. "Tell me what they're saying."

Scott pressed against the wall, peeking his head around the corner and leaning in close to hear.

"Can you hear them?" Stiles asked anxiously. Scott shushed him.

It was one thing when Stiles' dad showed up at school while off-duty—usually at he request of one of Stiles' teachers concerning his 'rampant behavioural issues'—but speaking to the school principal as the sheriff was an ill omen on an entirely different level.

Scott turned to face Stiles, his expression serious. "Curfew because of the body," he said.

Stiles' shoulders sagged and he huffed exasperatedly. "Unbelievable," he said. "My dad's out looking for a rabid animal while the jerkoff who actually killed the girl is just hanging out, doing whatever he wants."

"Well, we can't exactly tell your dad the truth about Derek," Scott said pointedly.

"I can do something."

"Like what?"

"Find the other half of the body." Stiles didn't event wait for Scott's reply as he stalked away.

Dealing with Scott was one thing, but Derek was a different beast altogether, so to speak. While Scott had definitely developed a proclivity for violent behaviour as a werewolf, Derek had actually murdered someone, and as far as Stiles could tell, it was no accident. He hated the idea of Derek roaming free around the town, poised to kill someone else, or even turn them into a werewolf. Maybe it was a byproduct of being the sheriff's son, but it made him uncomfortable, almost mad, deep in his core that Derek wasn't locked up. He wasn't a cop, or a werewolf, or anyone with any real power, but god willing, Stiles was going to do something.

_I'll put it on my list of things to do, _Stiles told himself. _Arrest a murderous killing machine, then save Scott from also turning into a murderous killing machine._

Stiles was completely unaware of where he was walking until he nearly ran over Jackson, who was stepping out of the chemistry lab. He snapped back to reality and opened his mouth to apologize when he caught sight of Jackson's arm, which was now curled up in a sling.

"Oh my god, Jackson, what happened to you?"

Jackson arched a single eyebrow, fixing Stiles with the most patronizing look of disbelief. "Your friend," he said very slowly, "tackled me to the ground, and separated my shoulder."

Stiles' eyes widened. "_That_ is from yesterday?" he said, staring at Jackson's arm.

Jackson nodded, his eyes heavy with exasperation.

"Wow, I didn't realize it was that bad," Stiles said. He took Jackson in. He was still standing tall, looking down and scowling at Stiles, but there was something diminishing about the tangle of bandages around his right shoulder. Not only did they totally stick out against Jackson's ultra-expensive designer clothes, but it made him look oddly weak, even though Stiles was pretty sure Jackson could beat him up one-handed no problem.

"If you're done staring," Jackson said, his voice still flat and indifferent, "I'll be going." He fixed his gaze ahead and walked off. He was holding his backpack with his left hand and leaning slightly as it bumped against his leg. A couple of times, people passing him by came dangerously close to his injured shoulder, making Stiles cringe as he watched. One guy, a gangly blond kid talking distractedly with a girl he was walking with, actually bumped into Jackson. Jackson let out a roar of pain and dropped his bag, before turning on the blond guy, planting a hand on his chest and ramming him into a wall of lockers.

"Watch where you're going, douche bag." It wasn't a shout, but a low, threatening growl. Jackson kept his slitted eyes on the offender for a lingering moment while he quivered before releasing him roughly and stomping off, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over his left shoulder.

Stiles hadn't even been that close to the scene, and yet it still left him rattled as he watched Jackson, the crowds now parting for him well in advance of his approach. However, slowly, his alarm faded to unease, and unease to subtle sympathy as Stiles watched from the end of the hall. Jackson's hand went to his shoulder, and despite the bandages and the warnings he probably received to not touch it, he rubbed it gingerly.

-o-o-o-

Jackson stood at the curb in front of the school's main entrance, shifting the weight on his feet restlessly as he scanned the parking lot for Lydia. The liberty afforded by a driver's license and a car was something Jackson had grown accustomed to since the day he turned sixteen. He didn't like being chauffeured by his parents, and most certainly not by his girlfriend. At the very least, Lydia wasn't going anywhere near Jackson's Porsche; that was his and his alone.

Unconsciously, he felt his shoulder again, a dull throb of pain still pulsing through it. Damn that idiot who walked into him, he thought spitefully. He was in pain, there was no doubt about that, and beyond pissed off, but what stung most of all was the burn of embarrassment that lingered in his chest, even now that he was outside and had been for nearly ten minutes now. Everyone had turned to look as he cried out in pain and dropped his bag at the mere _touch_ of some scrawny freshman punk. The punk was probably still shaking in a puddle of his own piss when Jackson left him, but the eyes had stayed on Jackson as he stormed down the hall. The kid got what was coming to him, but Jackson still paid the price for it.

A separated shoulder Jackson could live with, but humiliation left a scar that ran deep and never fully healed.

It was good that Lydia showed up when she did and not any later. Even still, Jackson was beside himself when she pulled up to the curb.

"So, how was your day?" Lydia said breezily when they had left the school's parking lot, not pausing to look at Jackson as she scanned the traffic through the windshield.

"Don't ask," Jackson gritted. "Just drive. The sooner I get this damn thing off, the better."

Lydia sighed. "Is it feeling any better? Are you going to play the game, or what?"

Jackson's answer was a frigid, piercing glare. Lydia kept her eyes on the road.

* * *

Okay, I know what you're thinking. All that waiting, all that fuss, for a chapter _that short_? I'm sorry, I know, it's paltry.

BUT.

I'm happy to report this is only _half_ of what was originally chapter three. Which means that chapter four is _completely and entirely written_. Together, the two chapters span over 5,100 words, and I was going to upload them all as one chapter, but as I finished the last few sentences I thought to myself… that's a doozy of a chapter. So I split it up.

I tried to make the split in a logical place that left the chapters somewhat equal in length. However, because this chapter wasn't _supposed_ to end there, it might feel a little incomplete. Sorry. Also, the split left chapter four longer than this one, so if you were disappointed by its length (even though, as they say, size isn't everything!), fear not, because chapter four should be more than adequate. And it's **done**, so you don't have to wait three centuries for it.

As always, I thank you all for the lovely reviews you've given me. Writing this chapter(s) was a challenge for me, and your criticisms are welcome and needed! Let me know what you think, and stay tuned for chapter four!

Okay. Sleeping now. Later!


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

Stiles could kiss Scott. This is _exactly_ what they needed to nail Derek. Stiles felt good—no, _great_—as he and Scott climbed out of his jeep and up to the front entrance of Beacon Hills Hospital. They had only one more litmus test to perform before they had solid evidence that Derek had killed the girl they found the night Scott was turned. After tonight, they would be one step closer to bringing Derek in. One step closer to justice.

"Yeah, take it easy, Batman," Scott had said when Stiles relayed his excitement to him. "You take this crime and punishment stuff to heart, don't you?"

"Shut up and get moving," Stiles had replied.

They took the front steps two at a time and hurried through the sliding door into the lobby. The hospital was a confusing labyrinth of hallways, with doctors and nurses and patients in gurneys flying up and down them in all directions. Thankfully, Scott knew his way vaguely around the place.

"I'll head to the morgue," Scott explained. "You stay here, keep a look out for anything suspicious. Text me if anything happens."

Stiles nodded and patted his friend on the shoulder. "Good luck," he said.

As Scott disappeared down a hallway, Stiles made his way further into the lobby. He at least knew where the waiting area was. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and tried to blend in as he thought of out how he was going to occupy himself without going mad with anticipation.

He reached the end of the hall and found the waiting room. All the air left his lungs when he scanned the room and caught sight of Lydia. He staggered over to the reception desk and leaned on it, rubbing his face.

"Oh my god," he whispered to himself. Why now? He had half a mind to turn around and wait outside in his jeep, but in the other half of his mind, he recalled something.

_"Are you ever going to, y'know, _talk_ to Lydia?"_

Stiles swallowed thickly and turned his eyes upward, sighing deeply. _Fine, I will_. He took in a steadying breath and pushed away from the counter. He gathered what very little courage he had and approached the love of seven years of his life.

"Hey, Lydia!" he choked out, his voice cracking under the strain of his nerves.

Lydia turned to look at him curiously.

"You probably don't remember me," Stiles said. _After all, you didn't remember me last Friday._ "I sit behind you in biology."

A confused tilt to the head. Stiles was right. She didn't have a damned clue.

"Uh, anyway..." _Oh man, this is so stupid_, Stiles thought anxiously. He was already in too deep, though. He was talking to Lydia—_actually_ talking to her!—and he couldn't chicken out now. "I always thought that we had this kind of connection," he said hopefully. "Unspoken, of course."

Her eyebrows lifted. Was it interest? Realization? Stiles felt himself growing bolder. Okay, maybe this wasn't the worst thing in the world.

"Maybe it'd be kinda cool to..." Stiles stalled. He felt a block in his mind, like a door slamming shut on the words flowing to his mouth. _Kinda cool to 'what'?_ he thought frantically. _Hang out? Grab a bite to eat? Elope? _"...get to know each other a little better," he finished meekly.

"Hold on, just a second," Lydia said, shaking her head. Stiles could feel his heart sink in his chest... then plummet into his bowels when she pulled her hair back and dislodged a Bluetooth headset from her ear. "I didn't get any of what you just said," she said with a flippant wave of the hand. "Is it worth repeating?"

The hollow shell of a man that used to be Stiles gaped at Lydia wordlessly. His insides had turned to dust, and his struggle to find any words to say was lost to the numbness of defeat that filled his head. "No," was all he could croak before wheeling around and exiting the room.

It was immaterial to Stiles now that he didn't know his way around the hospital; his only destination was as far away from Lydia as possible. _This is what I get for trying_, Stiles thought regretfully as he moved swiftly down a random hallway. His chest was heavy with shame and disappointment, his cheeks aflame with embarrassment. This was a golden opportunity, he thought, and it was dashed by a wireless headset of all things. There was nothing on-the-fence about it now, Stiles had a _full_ mind to lock himself up in his jeep, and maybe curl up and remain there for a bitter eternity. He kept his head bowed, watching the speckled linoleum pass swiftly under his feet.

"Stiles?" exclaimed a familiar voice.

Stiles jumped, jerking his head up and stopping abruptly. "Mrs. McCall, hi!" he blurted.

Scott's mom stood a few feet away from Stiles in her usual navy scrubs and white lab coat, casting a wary eye at him. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

_That's a good question, _Stiles thought, wondering what part of the hospital he'd blindly wandered into. He said the first thing that came to his mind. "Visiting Jackson," he said quickly. "He's okay, right?"

Mrs. McCall chuckled and rolled her eyes. "You too?" she asked. "Half the team's been in here to see him. He must be something special."

"He's, uh... he's somethin'."

Mrs. McCall led Stiles down the hallway. As she did, Stiles noted with relief that he had at least been walking in the right direction. At least something had worked in his favour. They turned down two more halls before stopping at a door.

"Just make it quick. The doctor doesn't like having so many people in and out."

Mrs. McCall opened the door to Jackson's room. Stiles half expected to see him in a pale green hospital gown with the covers drawn and an IV sticking out of his arm, but Jackson was just slouched on the bed, which had been leaned into an upright position, wearing his everyday clothing.

"Come to the desk of you need anything," Mrs. McCall said as she left the room. She closed the door behind her, the room going dead silent as she did.

Jackson looked up at Stiles, not looking particularly impressed that he had unexpectedly shown up. "What?" he asked.

"Just dropping by to check up on you," Stiles said, thinking of no better excuse. "How's the shoulder?"

"Oh, it's fantastic," Jackson said, his voice lousy with sarcasm. "Anything else, Stilinski?"

Stiles' gaze caught on the table beside Jackson's bed, which was overflowing with cards, chocolates and even a few potted plants. A bouquet of mylar "get well" balloons were anchored to one of the table's legs. "Yeah," Stiles said. "I got you something."

Jackson frowned. "You did?"

"Sure," Stiles said, patting his pockets for a present he just lied about having. "It's nothing much," he continued, fishing in the pockets of his jeans. He pulled out the only thing that wasn't his phone or his keys. It was a half-empty packet of gum. "Um. Want a piece?"

Jackson raised an eyebrow. "I'll pass."

"Come on, it's mint mojito. That's, like, the best flavour ever." He held it out for Jackson, feeling supremely lame that it was all he had to offer him when he had practically an entire Hallmark store sitting on his bedside table. He waved it in front of Jackson, waggling his eyebrows, in an effort to entice him.

Slowly, Jackson reached out and pinched a stick of gum between his fingers. Pulling it out carefully, he fumbled to unwrap it one-handed and placed it into his mouth. He glanced at Stiles as he chewed, his brow furrowing slightly as he decided what to make of the flavor. "Okay," he said. "It's decent."

_Mint mojito is better than _decent, Stiles thought, _but I'll take it. _He stood there, rocking on his feet and watching Jackson as he chewed his gum. Now that he'd visited and presented Jackson with a present (however meager it was), he thought it might be time to leave. He felt weird about it though, like he should stay, although he really had no good reason to.

Before he could give it any more thought, the door opened suddenly, the clack of the door handle jarring him out of his thoughts.

"Hellooo, Jackson," sang a voice. In bustled a short, young nurse with bushy blonde hair and a wide, smiling face. In her hand she carried a small metal tray. A jolt of shock went through Stiles when he glimpsed the silver of a hypodermic needle. "It's time."

Jackson seemed to shrink a little, looking at the nurse apprehensively.

"I see you brought a friend," the nurse noted cheerily. A tag pinned to her blouse told Stiles her name was Abby. "Good, 'cause this is probably going to hurt."

Jackson's eyes widened and darted to look at Stiles. Stiles could only shrug and smile awkwardly back.

"I mean," Abby said, clearing throat and shifting her voice to sound more professional, "it will only pinch a bit. Just count to ten and look at this funny picture of a sheep and it will be over before you know it." She held up a card that was resting on her tray that had a cartoon drawing of a sheep with a gleeful expression jumping over a fence. Stiles had to suppress a snicker and turn away.

Jackson, on the other hand, looked far from impressed. He stared at the nurse, his eyebrows pitched up in a mixture of disbelief and unease.

Stiles leaned in closer as nonchalantly as he could, peering at the metal tray. His insides lurched when he saw how big the needle was. It definitely wasn't one of those toothpicks they jabbed you with for blood tests. It disappeared from view as Nurse Abby set it on the counter.

"What _is_ that?" Stiles asked before he could stop himself.

Abby turned and looked him square in the eyes. "Steroids," she said seriously. Stiles stared back at her, eyes wide, before a grin stretched across Abby's face and she giggled. "Kidding," she said. "I mean, cortisone _is_ a steroid," she continued, "but for our purposes it's just an anti-inflammatory. Besides, I hear our Jackson is quite the superstar. All his friends keep raving about how he's going to kick butt at this lacrosse game on Saturday. Isn't that right, Jackson?"

Jackson's face was unflinching. "Sure," he mumbled flatly.

Abby did a double-take and frowned at Jackson.

"Mr. Whittemore," she said with mock concern, "are you chewing gum?"

"Um. Yes?" Jackson said uncertainly.

Abby rolled her eyes and sighed. "You can't be chewing gum here," she explained. "This is a hospital, not an elementary school classroom. You stick that under a chair or something and we have to hose it down with rubbing alcohol in case you're spreading around some virulent disease."

Jackson looked even more uneasy, maybe even a little scared, as Abby smiled at him. She reached for a wastebin beside Jackson's bed and held it in front of his mouth. Reluctantly, Jackson forfeited his gum.

"Okay," Abby said, once she had placed it on the floor once more. She rolled up his right sleeve and swabbed his shoulder with a moist towelette. Stiles saw Jackson jump a little as the cold cloth touched his bare skin. Abby tossed the towelette into the trash, moving with bored deftness, and carefully picked up the needle from its tray. "You okay?" she asked Jackson.

He nodded shortly in response.

"Do you want the sheep?"

Jackson raised an eyebrow. "I think I'm good."

"All right," Abby said, moving closer. She took a seat next to Jackson and put a hand on his shoulder. "Deep breath now," she said. Stiles felt another squeamish churn in his stomach and turned away before he could see the needle go in. There came a faint grunt from Jackson, the only audible acknowledgement that the needle had gone in. Stiles knew from past experience that he would have made a much louder, slightly girlier sound, but Jackson was otherwise silent. When Stiles could bear to look again, Jackson's eyes were squeezed shut, his face scrunched in a pained grimace. He didn't dare look at Abby, but Stiles knew she must still be pressing the plunger down, slow and steady. Stiles could see Jackson's eyes moving restlessly under the lid, his jaw clenched as he fought back the pain.

"Almost done," Abby cooed encouragingly. "You're doing great."

"Hang in there, Jackson," The words were out of Stiles' mouth before they had fully formed in his head, and it took him a stunned moment before he realized he'd actually said them.

Jackson's eyebrow lifted, and with it an eyelid. He squinted at Stiles curiously.

Stiles suddenly felt acutely self-conscious. He didn't know what had brought it on. This was the second time in one day that he had seen Jackson somewhat vulnerable, when normally he was anything but. There was never a problem Jackson couldn't solve by shoving it against a locker or glaring at it angrily, not that Stiles knew of anyway. Jackson always seemed untouchable in a way; even if people didn't like him, or tried to be better than him, he would make it their problem, not his. It had certainly worked on Stiles in the past. It was an odd realization that grew in Stiles as he watched Jackson that even popular, good-looking, athletic jocks could end up in the hospital with a bad shoulder, that even they were afraid of needles.

Jackson's face twitched, and out of the corner of his eye, Stiles could see Abby's hand pulling back. He felt a throb of pity and offered Jackson a small smile, lifting one hand and giving him a thumbs-up.

"Aaand… there, all done!" Abby said. Jackson relaxed then. When he let out a relieved sigh, Stiles realized he'd been straining his breath too, and he let it out quietly.

Jackson looked at Abby gratefully as she discarded the needle into a yellow disposal bin. "That wasn't so bad, was it?" she said, ever-cheerful. Jackson shook his head wordlessly. Abby produced a band-aid and tore off its paper wrapping. As she smoothed it over his shoulder, Jackson's looked at Stiles again, and his face did something else Stiles was not used to seeing. He smiled at Stiles. It wasn't the haughty, self-congratulating smile that often spread across hiss face when he bested an opponent on the lacrosse field or swept past jealous onlookers with Lydia in hand. It was warm and timid, and however fleeting it was, it took the edge of Stiles' self-consciousness.

"Well, that's that," Abby said happily. All that lay on the counter now was her empty tray, which she took as she stood up. "You should stay here and relax for a couple of minutes," she instructed. "If you start feeling feverish, let someone at the desk know. Otherwise, you're free to go as you please." She strode to the door and flashed Jackson one last grin. "You did great," she said as she pulled the door open. "You too," she added, looking at Stiles. "You're such a good friend for being here. Take care." And she disappeared.

Now that chatty Nurse Abby was gone, silence fell thick over the room once more. Jackson, who had been looking at the door, rested his gaze on Stiles, spurring him to say something.

"I'm impressed," Stiles tried to say casually. "You took that needle like a champ."

Jackson looked blankly at Stiles, the smile gone from his face. "Thanks," he muttered.

The silence persisted. Stiles shifted in his seat, his sneakers rubbing together as he fidgeted. Jackson was completely still, propped up against the back of his bed.

"Hey, um…" Stiles started. "I'm really sorry about your shoulder," he said, and he was. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm more sore after that shot," Jackson replied, "but I'll survive." His tone was grim, but not sarcastic.

"Scott's really sorry too," Stiles added, hoping for some reason that it would make Jackson feel better.

Jackson snorted. "Uh-huh." And the sarcasm was back.

"No, I'm serious," Stiles said. "He feels pretty rotten about sending you to the hospital." Jackson raised a curious eyebrow, but sill didn't look very convinced. "He even said you could repay the favour," Stiles continued, grimacing on the inside because Scott said nothing of the sort and would probably punch Stiles for implying that he did.

Jackson's mouth curved into a devious grin; this one Stiles was very accustomed to. "Believe me, I intend to."

Stiles chuckled nervously, both at the thought of what Scott would say when he found out and at the creepy, almost pervy smile Jackson was wearing. "Okay. Good," Stiles said awkwardly. He glanced at the door quickly, deciding finally that it was time to take his leave. "Well, I should probably go," Stiles said, nodding toward the door. "I'll, uh, see you around. Take it easy on the arm." He lifted a hand as he stood, waving goodbye as he turned to leave.

"Stiles?"

He stopped at the door, turning at the sound of his name. "Yeah?"

Jackson had a weird look about his face, like he was holding back an inappropriate question he'd rather leave unasked. He glanced quickly at the garbage can before looking at Stiles again. "Can I have another piece of gum?" he finally asked.

Stiles' eyebrows twitched into a frown briefly before he felt a grin tug at his lips. "Ah-ha, _seee_? I told you it's good," he said triumphantly as he walked over to Jackson and pulled out the pack of gum again. "Here," he said. "Take the whole thing." Stiles set the gum on the table beside Jackson's more lavish gifts and patted him on his good arm. "Get well soon, buddy."

He was still grinning to himself as he walked down the hall back to the waiting area, an odd sense of pride and satisfaction filling him. He was in such high spirits, in fact, that he had just about forgotten why he was at the hospital at all until he nearly ran into Scott.

Scott let out a whispered curse as he fixed his eyes on Stiles. "Dude, where have you been?" he hissed.

"Uh, sorry," Stiles said scratching the back of his head. "Got bored. Wandered off."

"Well, wander a little closer next time," Scott said, urging Stiles forward as he started down the hall at a swift pace. He proceeded to explain everything to Stiles brusquely, how the scent of the body in the morgue matched the one buried at Derek's house, how there were distinct bite marks on the leg, and especially how this was not just for the sake of winning Allison over. Stiles didn't want to admit it, but there was only one thing left for them to do.

"We're gonna need a shovel."

* * *

And that's that!

I hope you enjoyed that chapter. Chapter five is started, but barely, so I don't know when I'll have it up. On that note, however, I made a tumblr, because a friend said I should. There I'll post regular updates on my story's progress, as well as other odds and ends; you can find the link on my profile.

Thanks for reading!


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